<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>New Boots by spaghetti_garrote</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28481859">New Boots</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaghetti_garrote/pseuds/spaghetti_garrote'>spaghetti_garrote</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Winter of '69 [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Five Nights at Freddy's</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abstract, Animal Death, Corpse Desecration, Descent into Madness, Graphic Description of Corpses, Homicidal Ideation, It comes off very stiff because the author doesn't know how to write, Maggots, One Shot, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Canon, Violent Thoughts, its a christmas special, no humans are harmed, please do not sympathise with William, teenage angst, the author does not agree with the character's thoughts</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:34:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,696</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28481859</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaghetti_garrote/pseuds/spaghetti_garrote</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>William takes one philosophy course and suddenly thinks hes the new Aristotle. Through his teenage angst he learns that murder is fun, but also immoral after taunting god and getting a girlfriend.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Winter of '69 [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2106021</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>New Boots</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> Tuesday, January 7th, 1969 </em>
</p><p>The sharp ice crystals burn into his face as he hits the ground with a crunch. That's the layer of ice on the snow breaking as his head is shoved in the cold by the two bullies. He doesn't have time to yelp when they pull his scarf tight around his neck, and throw it up into a tree when they finally have it off.</p><p>He tries to lift himself up, his hands cold and ungloved wind up in the snow too when he tries to push his torso up out of the snow.</p><p>One of them sits down on his back and he whines in pain as he falls back into the snow.</p><p>"Cold Afton?" One of them taunts. He doesn't even know their names.</p><p>Something hard hits his back, it's heavy. The thudding weight hurts and he sniffles, for some reason he can't cry.</p><p>He lifts his head just enough to see what they're doing. The other boy is rolling snowballs, and the warmth and numbness in his legs tells him that the other is sitting on his legs.</p><p>The boy picks up the snowball and with a thud it it hits his back. They're building a freaking snowman on his back! He tries to squirm but it's no use. He's weak and cold, snow filling up his sleeves and collar and boots.</p><p>"Is he crying?"</p><p>"Let's see."</p><p>The boy who's face he recognizes but still has yet to assign a name lifts his face by his chin. His pale face has turned bright red from the cold, snow colouring his eyelashes and hair white.</p><p>"Nope. The freak's fine."</p><p>"Of course. Probably likes this- you like this Afton?"</p><p>He doesn't reply, he's busy trying to figure out the boys' names, is he mad or happy with him? It's be nice if they were happy.</p><p>"Ugh whatever, let's just leave him."</p><p>"Yeah ok.</p><p>Their voices grow quieter as they walk over the hill back to the school house, leaving William Afton face down in the deafening silence of the winter. Finally he rolls over, the snowman on his back falling to the ground.</p><p>He pants, and with a heave finally sits up, trying to brush the snow out of his clothing. When he pulls his scarf from the tree he's happy to find out that at least it's not soaked like the rest of his clothes. He wraps it around his neck, knowing that it will help with the melting of the ice in his collar </p><p>He walks a few dozen meters before he's retrieved his message bag, they left all his school work, good. With his affairs sorted out he starts the march home again. Down the cliff, through the bog,and along the highway. In the spring it's a 30 minute walk, but the snow and wind slows him down considerably. It takes closer to 45 minutes.</p><p>It’s the same path everyday, he’s a creature of habit, and likes the familiarity of the route. Tramping through the dead snow dusted weeds until he hits the creek, a shallow stream that’s mostly frozen over right now. Either way, he crosses it by balancing on the fallen log (although it was probably put there on purpose) that is going to rot and collapse under his feet any day now.</p><p>Finally, having crossed the creek, he stops, and watches as a stray rabbit stands in front of him. It’s so small, and unusually brown. Rabbits aren’t supposed to be brown during the winter, right? Biology has never been his strongest suit. He watches it attentively, it’s head turns quickly to see its surroundings, whiskers twitching.</p><p>Slowly William reaches into the snow with his bare hand and makes a snowball. It’s smooth from the minimal heat melting the surface and he thinks it will do well. </p><p>He launches it at the rabbit, and it sinks into the snow about 30 centimeters from its target, which takes off into the dried shrubbery like lightning. It’s ultimately unsatisfying, but entirely expected. He finds a special interest in how light the animal must be if it can skid across the snow so easily without sinking in. How strong could such an animal be if it were so light?  If only he were so graceful as a rabbit.</p><p>His hands are freezing now and shoving them in his pockets won’t do him any good. Losing body heat this way is no fun at all, not when his clothes are soaked in cold ice water. He picks up the pace, once he’s home he’ll sit near the furnace and warm up.</p><p> </p><p>"Hey mum."</p><p>"William! Your hair is wet- your pants too!" His mother Judith exclaims.</p><p>"Slipped near the creek." He lies. “I’m going to go clean up.”</p><p>“You better or you’ll catch a cold.”</p><p>The soaked school uniform is traded for a warm sweater patched at the elbows and a pair of loose fuzzy pants, the former hung up to dry above a heater vent.</p><p>He sits at the kitchen table and starts on his algebra homework, it’s only a little wet and the heat from the broiler should speed up the drying.</p><p>“I keep telling you that you shouldn’t walk near the creek but you never listen do you?” His mother complains.</p><p>“You’re right, I’m sorry.”</p><p>“That’s not going to stop you though is it?”</p><p>“Prolly not.”</p><p>It’s sighs and laughter, she’s not mad, he can’t be helped after all, he’s a boy and boys will be boys. He’s relatively well behaved anyways, always does his homework and doesn’t cause trouble at school. </p><p>“Well, it hardly seems fair to reward you for this but, me and your father got you a surprise.”</p><p>“Mh?” He looks up from the dizzying numbers.</p><p>“Not much of a surprise I guess, you were due for a new pair of boots anyways, the toes of your old ones were peeling up.”</p><p>“Oh mum, thanks- are these-”</p><p>He picks up the boots and inspects them a little nervously.</p><p>“Are these women’s boots?”</p><p>“They were discounted, and they’ll be functional.”</p><p>He laughs a little, but tries them on. They fit quite well actually, and he feels a little taller, which he doesn’t mind in the slightest.</p><p>“Thanks, they’re nice.”</p><p>“Now you better not ruin them by going through the marsh tomorrow.”</p><p>“I’ll try not to.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <em> Wednesday, January 8th, 1969 </em>
</p><p> </p><p>School's out.</p><p>William wraps his scarf around his neck a few times, but doesn't tuck the remaining length into his jacket, rather pining it back with a safety pin he stole from his mother's sewing kit.</p><p>"Afton, can we talk about your grades?" It's his English teacher.</p><p>"I thought I was doing well?" He says meekly.</p><p>"You are, exceptionally, but you haven't applied to any universities."</p><p>He never imagined actually living past high school.</p><p>"I didn't really think about it…"</p><p>"Well you should, you've got a lot of thoughts in there." And the teacher taps the side of his head. Probably a reference to his in class essay that went a few pages over length analyzing <em> The Taming of the Shrew. </em> Slightly less than coherent, but technically grammatically sound and certainly an interesting take on the story.</p><p>"You could study literature or philosophy, I think it would suit you."</p><p>"Maybe…" he doesn't care much for it actually, it's more of a pastime than a passion. He writes these feverish essays to try to understand, but they're always unfruitful. Still, he's planning the arguments for his next right now, he needs answers, but most importantly, experimental data.</p><p>"I'll think about it Mrs. Smithson."</p><p>It's not windy today. It's actually quite still. </p><p>Standing on the log bridge again, he can see his footsteps from the day prior still in the snow. He always walks this way, and his footprints are only erased every time it snows. The rabbit is back. He watches it carefully, and considers doing a sketch of it, but he's no good at stipple drawings, that's his failure in biology.</p><p>He slowly started walking towards it, avoiding the snowball path today, that didn't work. His new boots sink into the snow and crunch loudly, catching the rabbit's attention. Before he can react his object of fascination is gone already, skittering off into the dead frosted bushes. </p><p>Going through the marsh he comes out at the edge which leads to the narrow shoulder next to the highway. It’s slightly higher than the road itself and he’s walking in the opposite direction as traffic so he feels safe enough.</p><p>The shoulder is full of pine trees, and their shelter and warmth has made the snow melt faster here, it’s a lot easier to walk here because of that. It’s mostly dead grass and light snowfall that half crystalised, crunching when he takes steps.</p><p>When he gets home he takes a small moment to appreciate that his socks are dry and have saved him the trouble of having to take them off.</p><p> </p><p>"Hey mum."</p><p>"William! How are the boots?"</p><p>"Great. Nice and warm, easy walking too."</p><p>"Wonderful!"</p><p>"I'm going</p><p>He retreats to his bedroom, and ignores his homework today, that happens when he's alone, with nobody there to hold him accountable, what's the incentive to even bother.</p><p>He didn't like getting beat up in the snow yesterday, it left a bruise on his pretty skin he so dearly took care of, and it was painful and cold. Worst of all, he still didn't quite understand why it happened.</p><p>He lay on his side in his bed, eager for the blankets to start retaining heat from his body.</p><p>They had him pinned down, and he couldn't move. No wonder he didn't like it. They were heavy, his legs trapped he could hardly flail, and especially when the snowballs hit his back, the weight was so horribly balanced, if he moved the snowman would probably hit his neck, and his collar had been already full of snow as it was.</p><p>Father has some animal traps doesn't he?</p><p>He wishes he was stronger, then they wouldn’t be able to trap him anymore, he’d be able to trap them. </p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <em> Thursday, January 9th, 1969 </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The bell rings again and class is over again. William quickly leaves the classroom, his bag is already packed and he's ready, scurrying down the school steps to the path behind the school. The sun's already low in the sky but the air is crisp, he likes it and spreads his arms out to feel the last of the sun's warmth at the top of the hill. As he takes the first steps down he slips into his back and slides down the hill on his back, snow catching beneath his jacket and touches his back. It's terrible and cold, but he can't stop as the hill is iced over. He slams his heels into the ground and slowly he's slowing down- good because his scarf has caught on something and he's choking slightly.</p><p>Finally he comes to a stop half way down the hill, heels dug firmly in the snow. He reaches behind him and tugs in his scarf until it's free, loosening the grip around his neck. With a sigh, he starts slowly moving down the hill, more carefully this time, but still slips at the bottom.</p><p>Fortunately the dried weeds haven't iced over yet, and makes easier walking. The path he always takes is defined by the plants crushed by his steps. Sometimes he considers taking a different path every time to make it so that he's harder to trace or track, but what's the purpose of such thought? Why should he care about who knows his movements?</p><p>Come the creek he reconsiders crossing using the log. If it's icy too he might fall into the creek, and that would be no fun.</p><p>Instead he carefully lowers himself into the divot in the ground, the creek is mostly dried up in the winter, so there's a lot of walking space. The edges of the water have iced over, but water is still running. Fortunately it's not too big for him to jump over, and he makes it safe and sound. He crawls out of the creek but finds himself in the shrubbery. It's sharp and uncomfortable, but he can now get a different view of his target. The brown rabbit in winter is sitting with his back to him and he feels an opportunity arising. He creeps slowly, very slowly, until he's standing right behind the rabbit. His eyes are the size of saucers as he raises a boot, and steps on the rabbit, or at least he would have liked to. It bounds away by the time he's crunched into the snow. </p><p>"No…" he mumbles, and falls to his knees. The disappointment is soul crushing, but worst of all makes him irrationally angry.</p><p>It's ok. He expected that.</p><p> He pulls the trap from his message bag, and sets it. The metal work is fascinating, the clever springs excite him, and when it's done he runs his fingers over the metal just for the thrill.</p><p>He steps back into the bushes and waits, finishing his history reading since he has the time.</p><p>As the sun goes below the horizon he gets up out of his hiding spot and packs up, clearly no reward today. He leaves the trap. As he finishes the walk home he's constantly looking behind himself, curious to see if he'll be rewarded.</p><p> </p><p>"Hey mum."</p><p>"You're home late William."</p><p>"I was playing football with the guys after school." He lies.</p><p>"Oh! Well I'm glad you're getting along with them."</p><p>"Yep."</p><p>"Well clean up, we're having dinner soon."</p><p>Looking down at his soup he almost feels insulted by it for some reason. Preserved salted fish in water with potatoes, it tastes mediocre, the soft sharp bones hurt his mouth but hes probably being too sensitive. At least he can take comfort in the consistent salty taste of the broth, the fish brine flavour seeped in tastes good and its hot. He can be earn for a little longer before he's disgusted.</p><p>"Mrs. Smithson says I should apply to a university."</p><p>"Yeah?"</p><p>"She says literature or philosophy."</p><p>"You gonna be some Harvard kiss-ass?" His father Harold laughs.</p><p>"I'm not that smart father. Probably somewhere a little less...pretentious."</p><p>“Well we’re proud of you no matter what.”</p><p>The flake of fish sinks to the bottom and he stirs it back up with his spoon. The hard white flesh can be separated easily with his teeth into neat little pieces along the lines of meat and he finds it very satisfying. The gritty texture however, is unpleasant.</p><p>He runs his fingers over the edge of his metal spoon and thinks about the animal trap.</p><p> </p><p>He must have caught a chill because he thinks he’s running a fever when he lays down in bed. He’s shivering, but then he’s cooking alive in his sheets. His better sense tells him to stay under the duvet no matter how much the hot chills sicken him. Tired limbs are happy that he’s resting at last, but his brain is still buzzing and he’s thinking about the animal trap.</p><p>He has a recurring nightmare, one where every surface is covered in sharp metal mechanisms that slowly press into his body. He tries to wake his parents up, but their bed is covered in the same sharp spikes and when he tries to shake his mother awake they start piercing his skin. His face feels like it’s swelling up, his cheeks inflating and his lungs fill fluid. His hands feel weak and he tries to fight back but his spine is ripped from his body, this stupid nightmare!-</p><p>When he wakes he’s drenched in sweat, but when he crawls out of bed he’s no longer quivering from the chills. Perhaps he was just exhausted and it wasn’t a fever. He thinks about the animal trap, and the painful intimacy of his nightmare. Like being hugged by the animal trap, gentle teeth gnaw into his flesh and it’s almost a hug, his clothes feel too tight and he wants to take them off but he’ll be cold. He needs something to clear his mind, distract him, mentally exhaust himself so that he has no choice but to fall asleep.</p><p>He thinks about the animal trap.</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <em> Friday, January 10th, 1969 </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The school day is a blur, it’s Friday and the entire class is tense and wants the week to end. Delilah Miller has re-tied her hair several times, it’s disgusting and he hates it. Her dark hair has collected on her white shirt and he’s revolted. He’d like to take the white ribbon she uses to tie her hair and choke her with it, that would stop her annoying movements. </p><p>The two boys behind him are annoying too, chattering in the back of the class, and he wants to snap around to tell them to shut up, mostly because he can’t make out what they’re saying and it’s activating his paranoia. They <em> must </em>be talking about him, he’s frightened as to what they’re saying, do they think poorly of him? He doesn’t know their names, he only knows Delilah Miller’s name because she introduced herself to him twice on the first day of school, once in chemistry and once here in English, having forgotten that they had already met that day.</p><p>The boys throw a ball of crumpled paper at him and it hits the ground. He looks down at it, and crushes it with his heel before sliding it back behind him. </p><p> </p><p>The bell rings. He races from his seat out the door, barely dressed as he runs out the doors of the school. This time he’s prepared for the ice hill, and digs his heels into the snow at the top of the hill, skidding down safely and quickly, tumbling when he hits the ground but it’s a massive improvement from yesterday’s catastrophe.</p><p>He runs through the weeds and his lungs ache from exertion and cold (he’s never been extraordinarily athletic) and when he makes it to the creek he doesn’t stop, leaping across it and tripping when he fails to make the distance. Just far enough across to trip on the ledge and fall. He bites into the side of his mouth as his jaw hits the ground and it hurts goddamnit!</p><p>With a groan he pulls himself out of the creek, feeling his shins will be bruised from the impact. His bad mood is only soured by this, but it’s quickly made better when he sees his prize.</p><p>The animal looks weak and is unmoving, it’s been caught there for quite a while now probably. He prods it with his shoe and grins when it twitches. He’s not too late.</p><p>He’s wearing gloves he stole from the chemistry lab and he starts inspecting it’s paws. For an animal so small, it’s fascinating how strong it feels, and he can imagine the way the limbs must work, joints with such interesting rotation, he starts rotating it’s shoulder back and forth. He’s never been very good at biology, chemistry and physics are his stronger suits, but never shied for an opportunity to learn about or dissect an animal. </p><p>He twists too far and hears a small crack and the rabbit whines. Did he break- no he likely dislocated something. He tries to feel around for it but he doesn’t know what he’s looking for. He can identify it’s rib cage, and is surprised that it ends so quickly. There’s an abundance of spine, but then there’s just the curled up part of the animal that must be all meat and guts, no bones.</p><p>His attention is drawn back to the fact that the animal is bleeding to death in real time. He’s inspired to look for it’s heartbeat, and searches its neck for the slow pitter patter. He hates it. It’s so irritating, just like his mother when she hugs him, he can hear her breathing and heart’s thuds, he hates it so.</p><p>So he starts squeezing it’s neck with his hand, his rib cage is lit on fire and his fingers tingle in his gloves as they squeeze tighter. He wants to smother it, and he can because it can’t escape, it struggles but it doesn’t matter because it’s stuck here and nobody can stop him.</p><p>He’s surprised by how far his hands can sink into the fur before he’s stopped by flesh, and he wants to go further, but he doesn’t know how.</p><p>It’s dead now.</p><p>He knows because it’s noisy heart is finally quiet and he feels safe again. The sensation in his chest rises and fills his head and his eyes water, what is this feeling? Like butterflies like sitting upside down too long, like hot fever chills-</p><p>He stands up with the animal’s corpse in hand. His experiment is complete. He’s killed an animal and he’s felt emotion. Now what? He walks along the water for a while before find an appropriate divot in the ground to toss the carcass and he covers it up with dried weeds and then snow. </p><p>He wishes he could keep it. </p><p>He carries the trap to the creek and empties his water bottle over it to clean off the blood, and stamps out the reddened snow until it’s unidentifiable, there’s nothing to be seen here because nothing happened, and William Afton did not plot to find and kill an animal to understand the effect of such an action on his psyche, because he knows that people are upset by animal deaths. He didn’t understand at first, he was 13 when he finally realised for the first time, that animal’s deaths upset people. He understands now, that it is because they empathise with these other life forms, and feel bad when they see them unnecessarily hurt.</p><p>He knows this, and that is why he did not kill anything.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey mum.”</p><p>“You’re looking rather glum William.”</p><p>“Just a little tired. What’s for dinner?’</p><p>‘Potatoes, potatoes, potatoes, hmm… potatoes?” His mother jokes. They eat a lot of potatoes because potatoes last and potatoes are cheap.</p><p>“Let me guess, you’re boiling them?”</p><p>“How did you read my mind?”</p><p>“I’m a clever thing aren’t I.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <em> Sunday, January 12th, 1969 </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The church is dark except for the windows that illuminate the hollow chambers. William blinks his tear wetted eyes as he sits down in the pews far from his parents. He curls up with his feet on the bench against proper etiquette before sighing.</p><p>He’s never paid enough attention in church to know how to start a prayer, not that he really believes in the wishy washy nonsense.  He’s not delusional, he doesn’t hear voices except his own.</p><p><em> “Dear God, I’m running an experiment. I want to know how it feels to kill, but I’m missing a control group. I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel.” </em>He pauses, and looks to his right and left, the pastor is talking to someone a few rows ahead.</p><p><em> “I’ve run one trial, and I’ve given you a day to punish me. So far, nothing. If you don’t stop me, I’ll take this as a go ahead for further trials.” </em> He notices he’s shaking and he laughs. The anxiety is hard to control, so he shoves his hands into his pockets and takes a few breaths. A calm smile is easy to make, but his over excited heart is impossible to quiet. Instead he attempts a sad pious look, and this one falls easier and soothes his nerves much better. He flattens out his white dress shirt under his black knit cardigan and tightens his belt. He feels better now, and putting on his gloves, he can pretend his hands are clammy and he’s perfect again. As he folds his fingers and looks up at the stained glass of the virgin Mary he feels well. The dust floats idly in the air and is illuminated by the light that comes through the windows, and he watches the pattern momentarily before continuing his mock prayer.</p><p>
  <em> “I already know what my conclusion is going to be. It took me a while to realise, but the reality is that you built me wrong on purpose didn’t you? I am aware now, that the fact I am not the control group is...upsetting.” </em>
</p><p>He looks at the confession booths, and a thought arises in his mind. He’d confess to the killing of the rabbit, and then he would confess every violent thought he’d ever had, and wait for a reaction from whatever poor sap was on the other side. He’d choke the cute priest with his own cross, twisting the beads around his neck until he turned purple- is that actually what it’s like when a person suffocates? <em> He thinks the priest is cute? </em>He may be a degenerate but he’s not a queer.</p><p>
  <em> “God, you’ve given me a gift to hurt others. Should I assume you want me to do this?” </em>
</p><p>It’s of course silent, because he doesn’t believe in this nonsense.</p><p>
  <em> “Will you stop me?” </em>
</p><p>It’s not an experiment if there’s only one trial.</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <em> Monday, January 13th, 1969 </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He can't be expected to pay attention in class, not when Delilah Miller is tempting him with the white hair ribbon he could be wrapping around her neck and strangling her with.</p><p>During lunch hour he leaves the school with all his belongings, and doesn’t bother to come back when he hears the bell signalling the start of school again. He’s going into town, and he wants to buy something, maybe everything. He wants everything and nothing less will do.</p><p>It’s exhilarating skipping school for the first time in 14 years, he walks along the side walk down to main street and fondles his coin purse eagerly. He’s been saving for quite a while.</p><p>As he walks into the general store the bell rings and he curses to himself silently. He wanted to be unnoticed.</p><p>"Afternoon." The shop owner says from the front counter.</p><p>"Good afternoon." William smiles politely and nods before making a beeline for the tools section of the store. His gloved fingers linger on the edges of nails and screwdrivers, and he stops when he sees what he wants. A crowbar. He picks it up and weighs it in his hand, he likes the weight. Just heave enough to have a lot of momentum when swung, but light enough to operate easily. He looks through the shelves, and the man is restocking something, his back facing William. He slides the crowbar into his sleeve and picks up a pack of nails and a bag of gummy bears he'll pay for.</p><p>"I'll be with ya in just a sec boy." The man leaves the shop for a moment leaving William standing alone and anxiously, the crowbar stuffed up his sleeve.</p><p>"Alright, I'll ring ya up." No attention is paid to the contents of his purchase because they're entirely normal things for a teenage boy to buy.</p><p>"Thank you, have a nice day." He nods politely before putting his loot in his message bag and  waving goodbye, all single handedly. The shopkeep grunts a reply, some common equivalent of likewise he imagines. </p><p>He keeps walking, crowbar still in his sleeve, and he feels excitement coursing through his veins. Here he is in public, carrying a tool he stole, one he intends to use as a lethal weapon. It's exhilarating. He runs his fingers along the edges of the tool before he carefully lines his sleeve up with his bag and slides it in. He doesn't stop walking and rather reaches for the bag of gummy bears, and smiles proudly. He's a natural. He's no common thief, he's a step above. He's intelligent, calculating and accounting for every factor, that's why he didn't get caught. Quite frankly, he didn't deserve to get caught because of how much work he put in. If he ran a general store he would line all the shelves around the edges so that no one would be able to his from his sight, the shopkeep was simply not careful enough.</p><p>Strawberry, then apple. They taste pretty bad when he's bitten into them, but the sour dusted cold hard surface is pleasant. At least he can rely on these bears to not have bones.</p><p> </p><p>He walks down into a field, hes trespassing but doesn't really care. He wants access to the forest along the highway so he tramps through the virgin snow carelessly. He sees a figure walking in his direction and he curses, schools out isn't it. That might be a classmate, and if it is he's going to have to explain why he's skipping and trespassing.</p><p>It's Delilah Miller, he can make her face out at the point where they're closest, still separated by a field. She stops.</p><p>"Hey, William! It's me, Delilah from English!" She yells across the field. Hesitantly he lifts his head and waves hello. She starts walking toward him <em> oh no.  </em></p><p>"You missed class today- you feelin' alright?" <em> She noticed? </em></p><p>"Yeah, I'm alright. Thank you for asking."</p><p>"No problem, ah by the way, can I ask you something?" She fiddles with her fingers and the movement catches his attention. His eyes snap back to her face but can't really see her features, rather just looks through them.</p><p>"Sure."</p><p>"Are you dating someone?" she grinning way too much, so she’s probably not asking for herself. He’ll humour her.</p><p>“No, who’s asking?”</p><p>“Just a friend,” She shrugs, “Can you help me settle a bet?”</p><p>“How?”</p><p>“Are you gay?”</p><p>“No.” He says automatically. What a stupid question, as if anyone would say yes. Homosexuals are sick, literally, no sane person would admit to it.</p><p>“Damnit! Now I owe Sarah lunch!” she giggles and he feels insulted.</p><p>“Well, I’ve got to get going.” he tries to slip away from the conversation but she follows after him.</p><p>“You know Beatrice? We’re all in chemistry together.”</p><p>“Yes, of course.” Hardly. Beatrice Reynolds as pretty, and not much more. They were in the school play together once.</p><p>“She has a crush on you.” Delilah spills.  </p><p>“Really?” he laughs weakly and eats another bear, offering one to her as well.</p><p>“Yeah really! Since 9th grade!”</p><p>“Why?” Another bear to fight the absurdity.</p><p>“Why don’t you ask her? Ask her on a date!”</p><p>“A date…” He looks up at the sky blankly, it's the greyish blue colour that will be swallowed by dark unceremoniously in a few hours.</p><p>“Of course you’ve never been on one, have you?”</p><p>“No, not really.”</p><p>“Well dress up nice and take here somewhere for lunch on a Saturday. Jeez, didn’t think I’d end up doing all the work for both of you yeesh.”</p><p>They walk to the edge of the snowy field, and stop at the wooden fence. She’s still talking but he’s long since tuned her out, only nodding and agreeing politely every once and awhile.</p><p>‘You better ask her out sooner than later, the anticipation will really turn her on!”</p><p>“T-tur- what?”</p><p>“You’re hopeless William! A cute girl at your feet and you don’t even know what to do.”</p><p>“I’ll figure it out…” He quickly lifts himself over the fence and politely waves goodbye as he untangles his scarf from the wood it caught on.</p><p>
  <em> Finally. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It’s only been a few days since, he’s sure he’ll be able to find it. He jogs lightly through the forest until he’s in the frozen marsh and starts walking along the creek. It was in a section of dried plant matter with a small ledge of clear ground next to the creek that he sidled along to bury it. Thinking back, he made it exceptionally easy to find, all the plants he laid on top like a blanket would look unnatural compared to the plants sporadically sticking out of the ground, but then again, nobody would find it suspicious unless they knew that something was being hidden here, not that there was one, because he wasn’t hiding anything, because he didn’t kill anything.</p><p>But now, mouth uncomfortably filled with molten gummy bear residue, leaving him parched, he searches every bush and kicks over every suspicious pile of snow in search of his artwork.</p><p>He gasps when he hits something firm with his shoe, it’s a strange sensation, jelly like, but also hard, it’s likely somewhat frozen, although insulated by the snow and plants in the ground it’s debatable.</p><p>He starts kicking the snow away quicker, this must be it, and he smiles when he finds the corpse and prepares to put on his rubber gloves and reaches out for the animal, only to let out a high pitched scream. As he lifted the rabbit by its ear he watched the maggots swarm around its head violently, white crawling terrors gnawing away at <em> his </em>carcass- how dare they, how dare they! He’s terrified, and takes several steps back, feeling as if they somehow made it into his skin. He had to take several more steps back, and he’s far from the body before he even begins to feel a little better, terror still running through his body. The squirming sight is all he sees when he shuts his eyes and he screams again which morphs into a tearless sob. </p><p>Angry, he reaches into his bag and pulls out his crowbar, he gorgeous new crowbar and he walks back to the carcass. He’s terrified, so very frightened, but angrily strikes the carcass, the crunch of maggots ringing through his ears as he quickly pulls the tool back, screaming again when he sees one fly away from the carcass. He shakes his head, as if they’re in his hair and the crawling feeling won’t leave his neck. He feels unclean but strikes again, with more force this time and he hopes to see blood. Close, but no cigar. It’s frustration that fuels him when jabs the sharp end into the carcass and fortunately the decaying flesh gives away and tears apart for him. He’s happy until the maggots seem to have collectively decided to ruin his fun and swarm for the new wound. He screams in frustration and runs away from the animal, checking under his feet and jumping in terror when he sees he’s stepped on a few- where do these even come from?! </p><p>He runs into the creek and starts trying to wash his shoes off, and then at the end of the crowbar, his precious crowbar no longer virgin, tainted by this horrible experience, he wishes his eyes would water but they never do, he’s never allowed the relief of a full sob.</p><p>He stumbles to the shoulder of the creek and leans over, feeling ill suddenly. The nausea from all the gummy bears rises back through his throat, and the clumpy painful vomit stains the snow red and green. He tries to stop, but swallowing would be even worse, his lunch is probably somewhere in there too- but he must be careful not to get it in the water- and spoil the clean source of relief. Water starts to seep into his boots and he’s miserable, he decides he’s had enough.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey mum.”</p><p>“William, you look sick, are you alright?”</p><p>“Fine- I threw up at school, that’s all.”</p><p>“Oh dear, poor thing. Don’t worry- we’re having soup tonight so that should be easy on your stomach. Go clean up and warm up, ok?”</p><p> </p><p>The soup is warm and salty, another combination of root vegetable and salted meat. William stirs it around carefully and takes a sip, it’s salty and he doesn’t mind.</p><p>He sees something floating in his soup, it's fat and white- he screams.</p><p>“Maggot! Ma-” He gasps and realises his parents are staring at him. “Ma-”</p><p>It's barley, floating around with the fat that seeped from the meat.</p><p>“I… sorry… I thought I saw…” He can’t finish his sentence.</p><p>His mother reaches for his forehead and he backs away quickly. </p><p>“I’m just trying to take your temperature.” She speaks kindly but her shadow is closing in on him and he’s scared.</p><p>“Sorry…”</p><p>“William, you’re having a fever.”</p><p>He looks down at his soup and feels an anxiety bubble in his stomach, or maybe he’s going to vomit again. Is this some kind of retribution for his actions? Maybe taunting god was too far. He can’t eat the barley, the grainy outside coated in slimy starch repulses him, but continues to drink the soup.</p><p>“May I stay home tomorrow.” He asks slightly ashamed.</p><p>“We’ll see how you feel in the morning, get some rest now, alright?”</p><p> </p><p>He lays in bed in the dark, but can’t use his better sense this time around in the paranoid fever pre-nightmare sequence, and plays that game of blankets on and off until he’s shivering and sweating at the same time. The walls are black but filled with static that crawls and he’s reminded of something he used to cry about as a child. He thought the walls were covered in bugs, he insisted they were so, and would cry to his parents that the bugs were everywhere. It’s just the way his eyes work, everything is covered in a thin layer of static that when he finally noticed as a child, he interpreted as bugs.</p><p>It doesn’t help  however how terrified of bugs he is, the chills make him think the maggots are crawling over his skin again. He can’t touch his own skin because it's swarming with maggots, the maggots are going to eat him alive!</p><p>He can physically condition himself to relax and fall asleep, it’s gross and unsatisfying but if he doesn’t rest it will get worse.</p><p>He thinks of Delilah Miller and her white hair ribbon he’d like to wrap around her neck.</p><p>He thinks of the animal trap.</p><p>He’s going to set it again.</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <em> Tuesday, January 14th, 1969 </em>
</p><p> </p><p>William doesn’t feel sick, just a little stuffy; a brand new humiliating symptom that makes him dread living as his face fills with hot air. His usually pale complexion is spoiled by redness from blowing his nose. Still, with a slightly obsessive routine in the school bathroom, he begins to feel normal. A vocal warm up and he’s clear, and after he fixes his sleeves and smooths out his sweater he looks impeccable as always. The curls in his hair are not as refined as usual, but he didn’t have time to set it today. He probably wears it longer than necessary, and certainly compared to the popular hairstyle au courant it’s less than fashionable but it’s his pride. Can he smile? The key is to give a fake laugh first, those fall naturally, and then hold the position where his top row of teeth show and his cheeks are raised just a little bit. His eyebrows hurt holding the expression for too long so he has to shake it out, but that messes his hair up again. With a resigned sigh he finger combs it back and heads to the cafeteria.</p><p>“Excuse me, Beatrice? We’re in the same chemistry class aren’t we?”</p><p>“Ah, yeah! Yeah!”</p><p>“Could you remind me what the homework was last night?”</p><p>“Oh- it was ah- let me get my notebook.”</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>“Right! Here! Page 360 questions 1-7, oh no but the homework check is today isn’t it?”</p><p>“Oh- oh no you’re right!” He laughs in fake shock.</p><p>“Well, we- you still have all of lunch hour to finish, I’m sure you can make it.”</p><p>“Do you think, maybe you could help me?”</p><p>She turns red, and while he’s not looking directly at her he knows it’s worked.</p><p>“Oh sure! Yeah!”</p><p>Beatrice is surprisingly tolerable, she wears her orange hair down, no hair ribbon. She sits closer than he’d prefer, and she breathes loudly, but so does he because of his hideous cold. He thanks her profusely for all the help, and asks her on a date on Saturday. She agrees instantly and he’s won. Finally he can take that off his mind.</p><p> </p><p>Don’t ask how he learned, but he learned, adjacent to chemistry class how to make chloroform. It’s a surprisingly simple reaction, he’ll need a lot of bleach however. It’s probably nothing like the movies, he knows better than that, but he’s determined now. Maybe not. Maybe he should let the idea sit for a little longer.</p><p>He sets a new trap. He sits in the snow and calculates how long it will take to carry out his plan, and how many details he’s waiting to fall into place. He’ll need the weather forecast, and it’ll need to be perfect. He’ll have to trust her, and he doesn’t. He’ll have to not be a coward, and he is. He’ll have to make everything work, and god knows if it will.</p><p>And his trap is looking back at him and he looks at it. He looks around in the snow several times expecting to see maggots, but he’s far from the site of the first incident.</p><p>He doesn’t expect to have another prize today, although he’s feeling destructive. If it weren’t for his fear of the maggots he’d go back for the first; the feeling of striking flesh is incomparable.</p><p>Internally he feels disgusted by himself, and he takes a moment sitting in the snow to question himself. It’s hideous, and he ought to be ashamed of himself. He starts crying finally and he’s grateful for the relief. He keels over in the old sharp snow and the tears flow out as he tries to sob. He doesn’t remember how to cry out loud, the memory of how to do so is long faded and he wishes he were a child again. He runs his fingers through his hair and he tries to control his breath for a moment, only to give up and let himself stutter.</p><p>His face hurts as it is pressed into the snow again but he doesn’t care. It feels wonderful to finally cry. He wishes he could be held like when he was young, but nowadays the feeling leaves him disgusted by the smell of their breath, but perhaps the soothing movement of breathing itself would be nice. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey mum.”</p><p>“You look like you’re in a good mood, how are you feeling today?”</p><p>“Alright, stuffy but I’m getting better.”</p><p>“Good, and I hope you have a good appetite.”</p><p>Crying has worn him out and he feels starved. “Yes, I do.”</p><p>“Excellent, I’m making spaghetti.”</p><p>“One of my favorites.”</p><p>“I know, now come give your mum a hug before you go do homework.”</p><p>“Yes ma’am!”</p><p>The warmth of the stove and her embrace make him feel normal again for the first time in half a dozen years. His eyes water and he smiles happily as he weakly laughs away the tears.</p><p>“William are you crying?”</p><p>“No mum… </p><p> </p><p>Dinner tastes abnormally good, the canned tomato purée heated up is properly delicious, and the noodles aren’t bad either. The fried spam is salty, and while not his favorite, it’s a treat because it’s a different taste. The texture of the meat is a bit like canned tuna in the vaguest sense. The kitchen feels enveloped in a warm glow and William smiles. Judith smiles. Harold smiles. Their son smiles and his parents smile and laugh. Harold mocks one of the people from work and they find it hilarious. Judith spills some gossip about one of the ladies from her cross stitching group. William reveals that he’s asked a girl out on a date. They’re proud of him, but tease him for taking so long.</p><p>He lays in bed and it's when the darkness and calm devour him they also suck out the happiness he felt. It's so very easy to fall into those repetitive thoughts, he thinks of the maggots and the crunch, their squirming fear, and how selfish they are for devouring his prize. He thinks of the animal trap and gorgeous metal work, he knows it inside out and adores it. He thinks of Delilah and her white ribbon, and maybe he's like to stain it red.</p><p>He can’t follow through. He can’t feel happy without following through. He just felt happy, he didn’t need to follow through. He has to follow through. He has to find out.</p><p>For science. He needs more data.</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <em> Wednesday, January 15th, 1969 </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He has everything he needs to make it, and he's going to. He sets up his makeshift laboratory outside in the forest, the cold weather is favorable because the reaction is supposedly extremely exothermic, so much so in fact he fills a tub with icy water from the river and tosses some snow in for good measure.</p><p>He measures out his bleach and acetone and mixes them before backing away quickly. Supposedly the reaction would begin in about half an hour, so he has time to work on his chemistry homework in the meanwhile. Mentally, he tries to figure out the equilibrium for his reaction but gives up incredibly quickly.</p><p>The white vapour starts rising and he wraps his scarf around his mouth and nose, more as a means of comfort rather than actual protection as he knows it won't actually help him. He made sure to sit where the wind wouldn't blow toxic gases into his face but his eyes still burn a little.</p><p>There it is now, the white residue at the bottom of his pan. He scrapes it into a small medicine bottle and his heart does a few somersaults. He's actually doing this. He feels like he's missing a step, it can't be that simple right? That would be too good to be true, but he's too giddy to care. </p><p>He pockets the bottle and he's giddy, he can't wait to try it. It's going to be perfect, he's gasping for air when did he wind up on the ground? His head rolls around and he feels wonderful he hasn't even done anything yet!</p><p>Focus boy.</p><p> </p><p>"Hey mum."</p><p>"You've been coming home late an awful lot lately William."</p><p>"Have I?"</p><p>"You have. Why is that?"</p><p>"I told you, football."</p><p>"William don't lie, you never enjoyed that game."</p><p>"You don't know me, I might love it."</p><p>"I've been your age before, I know exactly what you're going through, if you ever want to talk."</p><p>"I know."</p><p> </p><p>But she doesn't understand because he is uniquely evil unlike anyone else. He's run things over again and again. If this is normal then the human condition is truly a miserable one, but if he is sick then why is it he's been able to hide and control himself so well? There's but one logical answer and it's that he is the devil incarnate, and it is morally pure for him to do these things, he is owed a due of violence and he shall reap it as he pleases.</p><p>But he's not so conceited to believe that is he? He's but a child, undeserving of anything, but so are the others, undeserving of their lives should they be careless enough to let him steal them.</p><p>Something is on TV, he watches it idly. The robots look a bit like fabric suits to be entirely honest, but they're interesting. They're not just man sized, there's men inside- dead men. He rather likes the idea of a mechatronic suit, you could hide your identity, become stronger, these ones seem immortal unless their bodies are destroyed.</p><p>He enjoyed windup toys as a child, he had one of a robot that would shuffle around on the floor, and he would pretend to be one of the marvelous spring powered machines.</p><p>It must be nice to be a tool with no mind, no pesky emotions. How degrading.</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <em> Thursday, January 16th, 1969 </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He can't think straight, anticipation bites at him at every hour, he's still not done preparing yet. He needs a way to lure her there- if he doesn't then this will be for nothing. His fingers roll over the bottle in his pocket and it gives him a sickening thrill.</p><p>He climbs down the hill, it’s no longer as dangerous as a lot of the snow and more importantly ice has melted away. Walking is easier in the marsh now that the plants have been crushed time and time over, but the snow has melted away. As he approaches the creek he’s reminded that as the snow momentarily melts, so will the carcass thaw, and he shivers in disgust. </p><p>He finds his trap at last, and wonders if his father has noticed it has gone missing yet. Harold probably hasn’t yet, he’s not terribly intelligent.</p><p>There it is, another animal, this one is still struggling, so it hadn’t sprung the trap long ago. William slips the gloves onto his thin cold fingers and lifts the animal carefully, running a thumb over its neck to check it’s pulse.</p><p>With it’s paws still safely held in place by the teeth of the trap he sets the animal down in his lap while he pulls a napkin from his pocket, and pours some of his handmade chloroform into it. He kept the crystals in solution, mostly rubbing alcohol, he thought it was a good idea.</p><p>It smells sweet beneath the burning smell of ethanol, he’s reminded how much he hates drunks and their filth. </p><p>He holds the animal's head, and presses the napkin into its face, holding a thumb on it’s neck to monitor it’s pulse. At first it races, chloroform makes its victims susceptible to adrenaline after all, and he was prepared for this to happen. However, he wasn’t prepared for the rabbit to start choking, and he didn’t notice it happening, not until he realises it’s breathing has stopped.</p><p>Damnit!</p><p>He throws the animal aside and slams his fists into the snow. There’s no way of knowing now if he killed it by accident or if his solution works- he probably killed it for all he know, his homebrewed chemistry experiment was a stupid idea! What an arrogant sociopathic brat he is!</p><p>When he’s done being upset he looks back at the animal with slightly less contempt, and is inspired to try something different. Afterall, he can collect two sets of data from this experience.</p><p>He wraps the animal in a bag and stuffs it in his messenger bag, bringing it home with him as well as the animal trap once it’s cleaned off. </p><p>As he approaches his home he’s careful not to be noticed, looking around paranoid for his parents to make sure they’re not home. After a few moments he decides it’s safe, and creeps into the shed, leaving the trap behind. He searches around for the tool box, he wants his father’s hunting knife, and at last he finds it. He slips it into his bag and slips out of the shed and only takes a few steps before he hears his father.</p><p>“William! What are you doing out here?”</p><p>He turns around slowly, keeping a hand on his bag, some irrational fear telling him the animal will leap out of his bag even though it’s most certainly dead.</p><p>“Hey dad, just enjoying the weather.”</p><p>“Yeah it’s nice isn’t it? It’s gonna snow this weekend.”</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>“Yeah, the boys at the doc have called it, weather’s ‘bout to get really bad.”</p><p>“Oh…”</p><p>“Yeah, happens every time the snow starts to melt you know.”</p><p>“Guess so.”</p><p>“Well, I’m going in, you too?”</p><p>“Sure…”</p><p> </p><p>Sitting at the dinner table he’s terrified and yet deeply satisfied, knowing in his school bag there's a dead animal wrapped up in a burlap sack. Mashed potatoes taste so good when he’s smiling, knowing he killed the animal by accident, and that he felt nothing but empty rage. That’s a different emotion. He didn’t expect to feel that but lo and behold.</p><p>The nearly fluffy texture of the potatoes is fun, but his mother over salted them. It burns the section of his cheek he bit out by accident, but it tastes good.</p><p>“Mum, I’ve been thinking about school…”</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“Well, what if I went to school in the States.”</p><p>“Why would you do that?”</p><p>“Well… I’m not sure, just thinking.”</p><p> </p><p>He wakes up, well rather he laid in bed for a few hours, writing in his journal something nonsensical for a few hours under his blankets only illuminated by a flashlight.</p><p>He throws on a turtleneck sweater and flannel sweatpants over his pyjamas, two pairs of socks for good measure. He peeks his head out of his bedroom door and looks around, its silent except his father’s obnoxiously loud snoring. He puts on his navy blue trench coat and laces up his boots before grabbing his school bag and hurrying out into the cold.</p><p>The night is still, entirely still and quiet. He’s almost disoriented by the peaceful atmosphere. He sneaks around the back of the house and tredges into the woods, poorly lighting his path with his flashlight. He doesn’t need to go far, just far enough to get to the ditch where he can leave the body when he’s done.</p><p>He kneels in the snow and takes out the dead animal, and finds it surprisingly stiff. Nevermind. He drags the tip of his knife into its stomach and starts cutting, unimpressed by the amount of blood and feels some kind of sympathetic discomfort in his own body. He hates it, he’s not supposed to feel this way. Instead, he pushes the knife in further, and starts dragging upwards until he hits the rib cage. He has to lessen the depth of his cut for it to crawl up it’s sternum, but he gives up easily. The knife goes into its neck and he thinks about Delilah, he thinks about her neck and he’s excited. The cut is hardly precise anymore and it’s becoming more jagged and impulsive, of course he’d do that he can’t control himself like a fucking animal a truly filthy being-</p><p>Starting from the top now he starts cutting down down the center and dips his fingers into it’s body. It’s wet.</p><p>He searches for organs but notices his vision is failing in the dark, all falling into static as his flashlight dims. He gets his fingers around something at last, and yanks. It’s slick and squishy, god he’s falling over-</p><p>Dizziness, it's hilarious! Or maybe panic, he’s not weak he’ll keep going, he has to finish.</p><p>He’s given up on the organs and picks up his knife again, starting to saw away at the neck, hoping it will be easy to sever the skull from the spinal cord.</p><p>At last.</p><p>He holds the head in his arm and holds it close to his chest, screw his clothing, screw the blood, he’s feeling definitive emotions from a definitive act, he can finally make a proper assessment based on his actions and experiences.</p><p>He needs to clean up before someone sees him.</p><p>How selfish is he that he doesn’t want to get rid of the head, he’d like to wrap it back up in that burlap sack and sleep with it close to his body.</p><p>He’d like to not feel so alone</p><p>He</p><p>I</p><p>He feels safe.</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <em> Friday, January 19th, 1969 </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Who cares when he’s like this.</p><p>If he kills Beatrice, Delilah will know,</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <em> Saturday, January 18th, 1969 </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Their date is mediocre, or he thinks it is. He worries he's not giving her enough attention, he's moved past Thursday night's festivities but he's still not entirely grounded yet. He feels unclean, not only because he has a crowbar in his bag and a chloroform doused handkerchief that probably doesn't work in his pocket, no carrying this filthy paraphernalia doesn't disgust him as much as the fact that he is painfully aware of himself right now. Is he really considering killing her right here right now? Would he really? Could he really-</p><p>“William, it’s been a lovely day.”</p><p>“Has it?” He replies absentmindedly.</p><p>“It has.” Beatrice giggles and leans against him.”Hey, I want to ask you something.”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“You wanna date me?”</p><p>He freezes up and stares at her. “Beatrice, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”</p><p>“Why not?”</p><p>“Well…” There’s nothing he can lose now. What’s the point, he’ll end up rotting no matter what. “I think about killing people a lot.”</p><p>“Yeah?’ She sounds nervous.</p><p>“Yeah. Like, <em> a lot </em> a lot.” And he sounds upset.</p><p>“Well you haven’t though have you?”</p><p>“No…” He doesn’t reveal what he did to the rabbits.</p><p>“Well then that’s fine. It’s ok to think about things like that as long as you don’t. I think it proves how strong you are.” She’s so ridiculously sweet it burns.</p><p>“So… you’re not disgusted?”</p><p>“Will, you’re a teenage boy, of course you’re gross to me! But you’re funny, and you’re smart, and it’s funny when you talk about books and science, and you have nice hair-”</p><p>“You have nice hair too.” He cracks a smile and doesn’t mind holding her hand. They’re separated by his gloves and her mittens, but the intimacy of holding hands for a moment touches him.</p><p>“Well I’m glad you noticed! I put a lot of effort into it!”</p><p>She leans further into him and he accepts the movement. “If you wanna be all dark and murderous that’s cool, but I think you can be a lot more than that.”</p><p>“I guess so…” He’s not about to be emotionally vulnerable again, his eyes are already watery here in the cold weather.</p><p>“So when’s our next date?”</p><p>“N-next?”</p><p>“Yeah! Unless you want me to tell everyone you’re a creep!” She teases.</p><p>“T-they wouldn’t believe you.” He gives her a slightly arrogant smile and she laughs. </p><p>“You’re right- you’re too cute for anyone to believe you’d kill someone.” She squishes his face and he doesn’t feel the usually instant repulsion.</p><p>“Alright, how about our next date, we go see a movie.”</p><p>“Really? What do you have in mind?”</p><p>“Well ah… we’ll see.”</p><p>
  <em> If he killed her it would have been too obvious anyways. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>"Hey mum."</p><p>"Yes William?"</p><p>"I want to study robotics."</p><p>"Why?"</p><p>"I'm tired of philosophy, think my science marks better be used for something good."</p><p>"Alright, thought of a school?"</p><p>"I'm thinking of somewhere in Utah."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I am very uncomfortable with the energy we have created in the studio today.<br/>this is not supposed to be sympathetic, it's just my extremely convoluted backstory for William with some fun foreshadowing not really tho cause i don't know how to write.  just wanted to completely word out the set up for his characterization.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>